


My Life in Black and White

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, Angst, M/M, challenge, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim, college senior and star quarterback, meets a smart but geeky freshman tutor. After graduation, they eat peaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life in Black and White

## My Life in Black and White

#### by Paddy

  
Like so many others before me, I wish I did, but I do not own them. They belong to Pet Fly, et al.  
Many thanks to Charlotte Frost for lending me tapes of The Sentinel so that I could watch and rewind, watch and rewind.  
Originally written for the Third Wave Sentinel and Guide Fuq-Q-Fest Challenges:   
Alternate Reality. Blair, sixteen and most likely a virgin, is a freshman at Rainier. Jim, upperclassman and on a football scholarship, is failing one class. Blair earns spending money by tutoring and Jim is his newest pupil. Jim's fraternity hosts a party, they get drunk, and while they don't sleep together, certain feelings come to light.   
and   
Peaches. Furry, round and able to roll pleasantly across bare chests. Find some way to get a peach (as a sexual toy/fruit) into bed with the guys.  


* * *

Riding in a chopper with the doors open is a lot like having a headache: constant 'thump-thump-thump,' stomach twisting up with nausea, angles so wrong you just close your eyes in misery. I used to only see the bad, but now I know to look for the good, too. Just now there was a flock of yellow and blue birds that rose up from the green trees, swooping in and out of the canopy like flying fish dancing across the waves. 

I have to remember to tell Sandburg that. He'll love it. 

_'I have to tell Sandburg.'_ If I had a nickel for every time I've thought that over the past year, I'd be rich. 

No chance to tell him lately. Army life doesn't allow a lot of personal time. For the three years between my college graduation and his, I've managed to send only a few letters and some scribbled post cards. In return, I got long stream-of-conscious narratives, written just as he talks. Sometimes they'd arrive three or four at once, depending where we're stationed and for how long. He wrote about his courses, what he got on his exams, his take on art, history, pizza, how the culture of jocks were the same as certain aboriginal tribes, what movies were worth seeing, which books to read. 

I've saved them all, sometimes pulling them out to re-read, because since his graduation, he's the one scribbling post cards and I am not replying at all. We are just about as far from each other as possible now: Blair's in Borneo on some expedition and I'm in South America. But next week, Blair is returning to Rainer and right now I'm flying one last rescue mission over Peru before my leave. We'll both be back in Cascade by Thursday. 

I wish this helicopter would fly faster, for this rescue mission to be a quick land-and-grab, so we can be on our way home in a few hours. My mind and body are here in Peru, but my heart's back in Cascade, back with Sandburg. 

The few post cards he's sent always end with 'eat a peach.' I never write that back, but I think it all the time. 

Sandburg's braver than me. Always has been, right from the start. 

* * *

I met Sandburg at the start of my senior year at Rainer. Things were pretty bad for me then and getting worse. I was miserable. 

Imagine, if you will, a guy's last year of college. He has some medical condition that no one can figure out, can't drink beer because he's taking Xanax, can't tolerate perfume on his girlfriend. And now he's failing Senior English, with the other courses lining up for their turn. That's me. 

I exist behind a glass wall, lonely and longing for what everyone else takes for granted. I crave what they have, alternately raging and whining, but always wanting. Always lonely. I can't get out and they can't get in. 

I've perfected the outer Ellison: expressionless, stoic, tough, acceptable for public consumption. Inside, I'm a mess. Crazy thoughts bounce around until I can't breathe. It's my worst nightmare that someday, the outer Ellison will no longer be able to keep the inner Ellison in check. Then the world will know what my old man was been warning me about: I'm a freak. 

Useless and unacceptable. A man can get pretty desperate when the future's laid out in black and white like that. 

Tuesday night is my therapist appointment, worthless as usual. We talk about my classes, what I'm going to do after graduation, what I am repressing. We don't talk (anymore) about bi-polar disorder, depression, or that I am seriously fucked in the head. I am tempted to point out that we're nearing the end of the alphabet (Paxil, Prozac, Serzone, Wellburtin), that after the Xanax stops working, there's only Zoloft left, but I don't. 

I have supper at home every other Wednesday. Good way for my old man to keep tabs on me. Sally makes my favorite meals, so it's not too bad. I can usually eat with my ears closed. But it's hard; he's so goddamned predictable. 

'Don't call them seizures, Jimmy, you don't want people to know there's something wrong with you. Tranquilizers are for horses, nobody needs to know you take them. Do you want people to think you're a freak?' 

Leans forward like he's telling me something new: 'Don't screw up your football scholarship, Jimmy, recruiters and employers like to see that. If you can't pass a course, take something easier, Rainier's got courses for athletes. You have to get all A's, Jimmy, anything less is not worthy of an Ellison.' 

Absolutely predictable. Always finishes with: 'Why can't you be more like Stephen? And don't do that stupid stare, son, and pretend you can't hear me. I'll knock you into next week. Don't be a wiseass, Jim.' 

Great week, so far. I wanted to think the worst was behind me, but my life never works out like that. 

* * *

'What do you want? I'm waiting for someone. Unless you got the test answers for me.' 

'Answers?' 

'Yeah, Einstein, you got a copy of the test or not?' 

'Forget the cheat sheet. You don't need test answers. You need a tutor, right?' 

I take a good hard look at this pain in the ass. Skinny little geek with long curly hair, headphones hanging around his neck still blasting out some pounding beat. 'What are you, in junior high? Go get the librarian for me, will you?' 

'Now, just wait a second. Hear me out. Low grades? Not completing reading assignments? Red marks all over your papers, right?' 

'So? That's all on my tutor request sheet.' 

'Yeah, but I bet I can add one more thing. A hyperactive sense overload.' 

'A what?' 

'Too much going on in the classroom, right? Some guy's sneakers stink, the room's too warm, the girl next to you is sitting too close. Pretty soon you can't hear the professor's voice any more. And that's why you're flunking.' 

'What? No! And who the hell are you, anyway?' 

'Gentlemen, is there a problem?' We both jumped at the librarian's intrusion. 

'No, no problem,' I said quickly. 'I'm here for the tutor sign-up and he...' I looked around but the little bastard was gone. 'Some stupid kid was sneaking around the stacks.' 

'Ah,' said the librarian in his best I-don't-know-what-you're-talking-voice. 'Let's explore your needs and ascertain who best can help you.' 

* * *

Freshmen dorms. A cacophony of music. The sickening sweet smell of pot drifting from open doors. Freakin' neon posters and notices plastered on every inch of wall space. Bikes and recycling bins cluttering the narrow hallways. Humanity makes my skin crawl. 

Thank god for my frat house. The Rainier Ritz, we call it, and it is: big bedrooms, decent kitchen, well-equipped gym and locker room, even a cleaning service -- Rainier supports its winning football team in style, and our frat brother alumni are particularly proud of us. 

Jesus, who could live with all these people and all this noise? 

Room 612. I bang on the door and push it open. Yeah, I'm here to see that freakin' junior high reject. 

'Oh, hey,' he said, his atonal drumming music turned up loud, seemingly unsurprised to see me. 'Music from an indigenous tribe of Amazon headhunters. Sounds a lot like what they're playing in the hall, doesn't it? And yet, somebody always yells, "hey, turn that jungle music down!"' 

'Yeah,' I reply. 'I'm sure they do. I'm saying it, too. You mind?' 

He looked startled for a moment. 'No, no.' 

'Why were you in my face?' I ask. 

He pauses, takes a deep breath, straightens his shoulders. It's almost physical, the way he suddenly looks older, more confident. 

'Oh, hey, look. I'm really sorry about all that psycho-babble at the library. But I just had to find some way to talk with you.' 

'So, talk.' 

He pauses for a moment, like he just remembered his manners. 'OK. Would you like to sit down?' He clears a stack of books and folders off his chair and drops it next to his desk. 'Have a seat, man.' 

I roll my eyes and make my disgust pretty clear. 

'You see,' he begins, all earnest and intense and excited. 'There's this class I've been taking. And my professor saw your tutor request and sent it to me. And when I read that thing, man, it was like -- bang! Holy Grail time!' 

Jesus. A headache starts up behind my eyes. Stupid kid. 'You're losing me here, Einstein.' 

'OK,' he starts again, a little subdued. 'My name is Blair Sandburg. I'm taking a seminar in anthropology and you're just what I'm studying right now. If I understand the readings correctly, you're a behavioral throwback to a pre-civilized breed.' 

My headache worsens and my temper flares, two symptoms that signal the onset of an episode. 'Are you out of your mind? I dragged all the way over here to this dump for you to tell me I'm a Neanderthal? You're living right on the edge, there, Sandburg.' 

His eyes widen and he backs up a bit, raising his hands. 'Well,' he stammers, 'maybe I was a little out of line with that remark, but what I mean is...' 

Suddenly it's all too much for me. The loud music, the smoke, this little punk insulting me. On top of failing English, jeopardizing my scholarship and my standing on the team just as the season was getting underway. I lose it. 

I grab the front of his flannel shirt and shove him up against the wall by his bed. I know it is too hard -- I hear his teeth snap, feel his slender body cringe, catch his pained inhalation. But I can't stop, can't bring myself under control. 

'Listen, you little freakin' geek.' I feel him shaking and something dark blooms inside me. I like people being afraid of me, makes me feel less like a freak myself. 'I could flatten you with one punch for pissing me off.' 

Slight tremors run through his body and I hear his quick gasps. Shit. Bullying a skinny little kid is not high on my list, once the initial thrill passes. I let go of his shirt, hear his feet hit the floor. 

'I'm sorry, man,' he whispers, looking up at me; I felt myself sinking down into his deep indigo eyes. Damn but I do not need an episode right now. I can't move, even though I know I am crushing him against the wall. Have to wait for the feeling to pass. 

'I'm sorry, Jim, really I am,' he says softly. 'I know I come across like some kind of geek, but I can help you. You wouldn't even have considered me as a tutor if I offered, am I right? I'm good at English, and maybe, if you don't mind, when we're done, I could ask you some questions. That way, you wouldn't be a research project for me, but instead someone to just talk to. And you're not a Neanderthal, but a normal guy.' 

His voice is keeping me just on this side of sanity, but it's still a near thing. I refuse to call it a seizure, despite what my old man says. It's not epilepsy. It's not brain damage. It's not a learning disability or autism. It's not depression. It's not mental illness. It's not. I just don't know what it is. 

Sandburg keeps going: 'Well, not so normal because of the way you play football, you're a genius there but you're not a freak, just someone who works on intuition instead of intelligence. That doesn't sound right, either, but that you instinctively act, not analyzing and weighing and debating. That's all I meant by pre-civilized behavior, that you don't sit around talking something to death, you just go out and do it. So when you're sitting in class, you're overloading, man, on all the sensory input. All you really need are the facts, just like Joe Friday, just the facts so you can act...' 

He trails off. The episode retreats back into the darkness. Realizing I'm still holding him against the wall and how strange that feels, I push away. But I just have to laugh. 'Jesus, Sandburg, do you ever stop talking?' 

He's surprised at that, then comes a Sandburg smile that lights up the room. 

* * *

Twice a week we meet at the library. I pick a table way in the back. What I do not need is too many people spotting me with Sandburg. He's helping me, no doubt about it, but the kid is 16. Sixteen, for crissake. Boy genius. A little humiliating for a senior to be tutored by a kid too young to be a freshman. Still, he's far superior to the tutor the librarian assigned me. 

Sandburg's smart, Jesus, is he smart. And though he talks way too much, he's a natural teacher. I get it. He's not just smart in book ways, but it's like he really understands people. Understands me. 

After we're done studying, I sometimes surprise myself telling him things I've never said to anyone, yeah, me: Jim Ellison the Original Loner. He has some interesting insights, not that I would ever admit it. And I think about what he says all week. It helps. In some weird way, he helps me. 

'That thing that happens, what do you call it again?' 

Sandburg's smile is irresistible. The outer Ellison never smiles in return, but the inner one is really getting to like the happy look on his face. 

'Yeah,' he says in the enthusiastic tone he got whenever he gets to explain something he really likes. 'It's the overload factor, like you zone out. The Ellison Zone, as it were.' 

'Shut up, Sandburg.' 

He grins, completely unintimidated by me any more. 'No, really, man. Think about it. When you're on the field, you probably can't hear the crowd, right? You don't look at the cheerleaders, you don't smell the hotdogs, you don't feel each individual stitch on the football. You're just concentrating so intently on getting the ball to the, uh, to the guy who's supposed to be getting the ball.' 

'For an uncoordinated geek, that's a pretty good description.' 

He smiles again. 'So you need an Ellison Zone in the classroom, where you shut out the smells, the sounds, the sights, and just concentrate on what the professor is saying. If you'd let me come with you to a class....' 

'No, Sandburg, no.' 

We fall into our usual argument about him accompanying me to class. He has a dozen reasons why he should, I have a hundred why he should not. He ducks but not fast enough. I mess up his hair and give him a soft slap upside the head. Another new thing for me. 

Truth be told, I kind of like the kid, now that we had gotten past our antagonistic first couple of weeks when he tried to make me see my condition as a gift. He's wrong about that, it is no gift, but he does have some pretty good ideas about how to work around it. 

He talks too much, is interested in a million things, is as enthusiastic and unrepressed as a puppy. Bumps up against my glass wall like it isn't even there, like he expects, no, demands admittance. And then invites me to come out and play. 

Despite all that, it's peaceful to be with him. Like the noise recedes, which is weird if you know Sandburg. 

And he likes me. That I know, can feel certain about. Sounds stupid, but there aren't many people you can be sure of. At least, I can't. My mom left, my dad thinks I'm a freak, girls don't stick around long. I don't trust anyone, not really. I hold myself apart, with a great big fortress around me. Also being remote makes my condition easier to hide. 

When I was younger, I used to imagine myself a superhero, you know, with secret powers. Even that I was from another planet. I was Iceman on the outside, the Torch on the inside. I shed that childish notion long ago. Now I know I'm not a superhero, just a freak. Oh, I still got the ice thing going on the outside, but the fire's gone out. Someone ever found out about whatever's wrong with me, the shit would hit the fan, as my old man says. Another thing he says, who wants a freak? Not the coach, not the team, not the frat brothers, not the alumni, not the recruiters, not law schools, not any girl. Nobody. 

Shut up and shut down. Makes it all bearable, barely. Yeah, I'm bitter. Missing out on everything good in life, just standing on the sidelines watching everyone have fun. Cold and remote and lonely. 

Until Sandburg. 

He doesn't care about football, not about fraternities or who's recruiting or what clothes I wear or the truck I drive or who my father is or how much money we have. I don't think Sandburg has ever once in his hippie-dippie life thought about appearances. And he likes me. Right now I'm soaking it up like there's a drought coming fast. Storing it up against the day when he figures out that I really am a freak and leaves. 

'Hey, Ellison.' 

I groan. Johnston, Keane and Parks. The front line. A bigger, meaner, more dim-witted bunch of tacklers never existed. I'm glad they are on my team, but I do not like them. 

I keep an eye on Sandburg, who is watching them apprehensively. I can practically smell the fear rolling off him. 

Johnston tangles his big paw in Sandburg's hair. 'Hello, princess. Haven't seen you around lately.' 

Anger, always simmering in me, flares up quickly, grateful for a target. OK, fear, too. How do they know Sandburg? 'Fuck off, Johnston. He's helping me with English. Wouldn't want me to be benched, would you? Banks would be the QB then and you know he sucks.' 

'Helping you with English?' Keane laughs. 'I got something I'd like him to help me with.' 

Johnston yanks Sandburg to his feet. 'Hear that, queer boy? Keane here wants you to help him. You remember what to do, don't you?' 

For once, Sandburg has nothing to say. He pushes and twists and tries to pull his hair out of Johnston's grasp. Johnston releases him suddenly and Sandburg falls to his knees. Keane steps forward and thrusts his crotch in the kid's face. 

I stand up so fast my chair tips over. I push Keane hard. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? If I don't pass this, I'll sit out the Thanksgiving Day bowl game. You want that, asshole?' 

Rage makes me shake. If I focus on that, on how much I want to hurt someone, the episode won't come. I hope. 'If we don't win the bowl game, we're not going to the play-offs. No play-offs, no recruiters.' 

Johnston sees the wisdom in that and moves along. Keane and Parks follow his lead. 'We were just having a little fun, Ellison. Sandburg's our friend, ain't that right, sweetheart?' 

I am still breathing hard when I turn back to Sandburg. He's the only one left to vent my fury on. If he's friends with those guys, then he's told them about me. They probably all laugh at the stupid fuckin' freak. 

I am right on the verge of an episode despite my best efforts to suppress it. Sandburg tells them about my condition, they tell the coach, then I'll be benched and everyone will know why. Everything is spiraling into a tightly wound knot that is choking me, narrowing my world down to Sandburg. It's his fault this is happening to me. 

Yeah, it's all about me. And it's all his fault. 

Everything's whirling at light speed inside my head. It's suddenly too loud in the library. The room goes in and out of focus. I'm unsteady on my feet. Jesus, here it comes. 

Sandburg looks up at me gratefully. Something clutches in my chest at his dark blue eyes. That throws me off and I can feel my grip on sanity strengthen a little, but the darkness is relentless. 

'Thanks, Jim,' he whispers. 

I can't accept that. He's let me down, he's untrustworthy, same as everyone else. My thoughts are whirling, too loud, too fast. I can only think, you get close to somebody and they fuck you over. Every fucking time. 

With a tight grip on his throat, I lift him up bodily and slam him down on the table. Stand between his spread legs and just glare hatred at him. I'll give the little freak credit. He doesn't try to pry my hands off his throat or kick or scream. That would be just the push I need to shed some blood. 

Instead he looks up at me, trusting, despite his vulnerable position, that I won't hurt him. Stupid kid. 

He gently strokes my wrists, all the time talking in a somewhat roughened voice. For a moment, the rage ebbs, my mind quiets. He likes me. He trusts me. 

I try to relax my grip. Try to listen, because sometimes Sandburg helps, but I can't wrestle the darkness back into the box. And I'm hard. I'm hard for Sandburg. Jesus, what is wrong with me? I am a bigger freak than he is. 

My hands are shaking. I am going to do him harm if I don't leave now. 

* * *

That was October. Every Tuesday and Thursday, he goes to the library and waits at the table in the back. At the end of two hours, he sighs and packs up his stuff to head back to his loud, crowded dorm. I know this because every Tuesday and Thursday, I go to the library and watch from the mezzanine. I can't bring myself to resume our tutoring sessions, but neither can I stay away from Sandburg. 

If I pass him on campus, I get that big Sandburg smile, hear a delighted 'Jim!' and ignore the hurt as I brush past him. I don't trust myself and he doesn't deserve another large helping of freak. 

By mid-November, all my grades are on the border and heading south fast. Coach screams at me daily, professors warn me, my old man chimes in by phone. There is no relief, until one mid-term is postponed until after Thanksgiving. I know the coach engineered that so I could play in the Turkey Bowl. That's all anyone cares about. 

We win, of course. They don't call me Eagle Eye Ellison for nothing. Lots of back-slapping and cheers in the locker room. Team, press, alumni, Dad. They're all there. Get Ellison to do his thing, make us look good, then he can go back to his miserable existence. 

Football is king in our house, so Thanksgiving is postponed until Friday. Makes Sally grumble about priorities, but what it's what William Ellison decrees, so everyone concedes. 

That gives him all evening after the game to point out what I did wrong, where I could have made different plays, to ask why I didn't play up to my potential. Hard to be thankful for anything. 

Friday morning I slip out for a quick run to the university. I meant only to leave a note for Sandburg. Not an apology, of course, Ellisons don't do that, but just a request to resume tutoring. I have to pass the mid-term and bring up my GPA in all my classes. The critical New Year's Day games are just weeks away. 

The dorm's peaceful, clean, quiet. Sandburg opens his door just as I tape the note there. Shocks the hell out of me. 

'Sandburg, what are you doing here?' 

A tentative smile wavers, then blooms into a full-fledged Sandburg grin. 'Jim! Hey, man, how are you? How's it going?' 

A chunk of ice falls away from my heart. God, I had forgotten how good it feels to be with the little geek. He likes me. Still. 

'I missed you, man. Really. How are your classes going? Are you in an Ellison zone? Is that helping? Cause I thought of a couple of other things we could try and I know you have a mid-term coming up, right? And those papers to write in History and Soc, so maybe I could help there, too. And I want to ask you something.' 

A second iceberg breaks away and melts under the onslaught of Motormouth Sandburg. 

'Anyway, what are you doing here? Do you need something? I could help now. I'm done studying and the library's closed for the holiday, so I can't work on my project, but it's almost done, and I was thinking that I could...' 

'Sandburg,' I interrupt, 'Sandburg! Stop talking. I came to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner at my house.' 

I'm not sure which of us is more surprised. And, as it turns out, neither of us were as surprised as was my old man. 

* * *

In the warm and welcoming way of the Ellisons, we are sitting in front of the TV, watching a procession of games, analyses, replays. My father takes one look at Sandburg, makes the barest of polite acknowledgements and returns to the game. Stephen takes his cue from Dad. 

When Sally comes in with another bowl of dip, Sandburg gets up and follows her back into the kitchen. 

Dad watches him go, then turns to me. 'Christ, where'd you find that?' 

'He's my tutor, Dad, you know, the guy who's getting me through my senior year so that I can concentrate on important things like football.' 

'Don't be a wiseass, Jim.' He takes another long swallow of beer and belches. 'Why couldn't you find some smart little co-ed to help you?' 

'Yeah, Jim,' Stephen chimes in. 'What about Carolyn? She's smart. And pretty. And a girl. A real one, not a wannabe like Sandburg.' 

What could I say to that? That Sandburg doesn't assess me with an eye toward what I can do for him? That he doesn't care if I have an episode? That he never asks for anything and is pathetically grateful for the pittance I pay for his tutoring? That I've done something awful to him and he's forgiven me? That he likes me, genuinely and without ulterior motives, likes me? If I was ever going to be able to have a best friend, it would be him? 

I say nothing. Get up to get another beer. 

Sally's kitchen is a different world. She has some sappy big band music playing and a half-dozen pots and pans on the stove. She and Sandburg are laughing over something when I come in. Sandburg gives me his usual grin, which I don't return. 

I lean against the refrigerator and watch them pick over, wash and chop vegetables for salad. Sandburg has an apron tied around his slender waist and looks pretty proficient with a cleaver. It could almost make me smile. 

Sally is probably one of the few people who could rival Sandburg in the non-stop talking Olympics. She sails in and out of the swinging doors, bringing napkins and serving platters and silverware to the big formal dining room table. It takes her a few trips to realize that Sandburg is no longer talking back. 

His head hangs down, his hands are still. Even if I knew what to do, which I don't, I'm frozen in place. I wait for Sally to notice, to do something, to fix it. 

Sure enough, on her next pass through, she stops dead, takes one look at Sandburg, then turns him around and hugs him hard. Been a lot of years since I've been hugged; I can barely remember how it feels, but Sandburg seems to like it. 

She tips Sandburg's face up. 'Whatever is the matter, Blair?' 

Not a word from Sandburg for a moment. He swallows a couple of times and his chin trembles. I remember that feeling, too, when you're trying not to cry because you're a boy, because you're too old, because you're an Ellison, for crissakes. 

With some effort to control his voice, Sandburg blurts out, 'I miss my mom.' 

If there was one thing that Sally doesn't take kindly to, it's neglectful mothers who run out on their sons. She hugs Sandburg even closer, rocks him gently side to side. I can't decide if I'd rather be in her place or his. 

After a minute or two, I watch Sandburg pull himself together. He straightens his shoulders and gives that patented Sandburg smile. 

'Sorry,' he says lightly. 'Don't know where that came from.' One deep breath and he's back chopping vegetables. 

Sally knows where that came from, I am sure of it. I am going to ask her tomorrow what she had found out about Sandburg. 

The delayed Thanksgiving celebration was as you might expect at chez Ellison: perfect, abundant, fit for a Norman Rockwell portrait. Perfect, that is, if you didn't mind the chilly atmosphere and the lack of conversation. Sandburg tried, I gave him credit. He got Stephen to talk about his college plans a bit, but got nowhere with the old man. I could see him sinking down further and further every time my dad either grunted in a non-reply or made some cutting remark. 

Sandburg makes no objection when I offer to drive him back to campus. We wait for the campus security to unlock the dorm, then he thanks me politely and gets out. I wait until I see a solitary light illuminate the lonely room on the sixth floor, then I drive home to my warm, loving family. 

'He doesn't know about you, does he?' my old man asks. 'Wouldn't do to give him that kind of ammunition.' 

He turns back to the TV. 'Freak.' 

I don't know which one of us he's referring to, so I go to bed. 

* * *

To make up for lost time, Sandburg tutors me three times a week now. Between that and practice, I am too exhausted for any seizures, episodes, whatever. I just flop down in bed at night and next thing I know, it's morning and time to start again. 

Well, that's not exactly true. Before I close my eyes at night I think about Sandburg. 

My world must be black or white. I need rules, clear, defined, absolute. With my 'condition,' I can't tolerate ambiguity in anything. A leads to B leads to C, no deviation. My condition makes me a freak in a real man's body; rules help me hide it. 

Let's review. My mother left because I was born a freak. If I continue to be a freak, my old man will hate me. If I am the perfect son, he will love me. A perfect son is a good student, a great football player and a real man; doesn't flunk classes, get kicked off the team, or think about anything but girls. 

I must be a real man. I have to be. It's that black or white. 

Except that brings me back to Sandburg. Sandburg does not play by the rules, does not fit neatly into a category. No black or white for him, he's way out there in his own grey zone. 

A freshman, even though he's only 16. A geek, but cool. Pretty, but a guy. Wide open, but with something secret and wary about him. We have nothing in common, but he knows about my 'condition,' the first outside my family. And he thinks I'm 'gifted,' not a freak at all. The first anywhere. Not a real man, I don't think, but he's not a freak, either. I have never known anyone like Sandburg. 

I think about him in ways new to me. Like holding him down on the table that day Johnston found us in the library. But not in anger, never again in anger. I think about my hands on him and the way he looked up at me. I think a lot about leaning over and touching his lips. Think about it so much I end up humping the sheets at night, a corner of the pillow stuck in my mouth so no one will hear me call his name. 

And the next night I do it again, and the night after that, for weeks. I know what gay guys do. At least, I think I do. Every all-American insult includes a reference: 'cocksucker'; 'shove it up your ass;' 'buttfucker.' I can't actually imagine the mechanics of it, don't really want to. I just want to have Sandburg on his back looking up at me. Beyond that, the details are grey. 

Those feelings don't fit into my neat black-or-white world. I don't know what to do with them. No rule applies here. 

I'm not gay, real men aren't. Gays are worse than freaks, my old man said so. He won't love me if I'm a freak, but if I was born that way, maybe he isn't ever going to love me. One more thing to hide from the therapist. 

I'm careful to keep it hidden from Sandburg, too. 

If I said, 'hey, Sandburg, I think about touching you,' he'd lean forward in his intense way and start talking. And by the time he finished, I'd believe that black was white, white was black, grey was beautiful, and nothing was against the rules. 

* * *

Thursday noon at the library. My English final is later this afternoon and though we're having one last tutoring session, I don't really need it. No headaches, no premonitions of an episode, just a fairly confident feeling I can pass the final. 

I'm really here to see Sandburg one more time before Christmas break. I'm going to tease him about his five layers of flannel and his perpetually cold fingers. About that ugly scarf from god-knows-where and wearing two pair of socks and Birkenstocks in winter, for crissakes. And if I can formulate the words, I'm going to thank him for getting me through this semester. Not just academically, but in so many other, more important ways. Sandburg gave me unconditional friendship, taught me how to handle my curse, guided me in the right direction. There are no easy words to convey that, but I've been rehearsing some phrases. This is important to me. 

Here he comes, long hair flying out from under his wool cap. His glasses must be fogging up from the warmth of the library because he's a little wobbly on his feet, half stumbling against a table. 

'Sandburg!' 

Jesus, his lip's split, blood coating his chattering teeth and dripping down his chin. Instinctively, I reach out to him, trying to oh-so-gently touch his lip. A near-silent moan and he leans his face into the heat of my palm. 

'Sandburg? What happened?' 

I wish I knew how to hug someone, really, I do. I think he wants me to. He leans in my direction, then with a shudder, he straightens up in his chair, uses the end of his scarf to wipe away the blood. With an effort I can literally see, he stops shivering, clenches his teeth still, cleans his glasses. 

'Football team seems to be recruiting me, man,' he says with a pained smile. 'They're trying to teach me to tackle or something.' His chin quivers a bit and he struggles for some control. 

'No,' I breathe, trying not to think of what Johnston and Keane and that crowd would delight in doing to him. 

A quick inhalation and an angry 'Yes!' Sandburg's eyes are red-rimmed and won't hold mine for long. 'Yes,' he says again. 

'You think you're the freak on campus? Do you, Jim? Big, strong, football quarterback, general all-round all-American boy like you? You've got the looks, the clothes, the car, the money, the size. Whatever you consider your freakiness is hidden. If you saw it for the gift it is, you would have nothing to hide. After all, man, how many people look at you and think "freak"? How many?' 

I'm startled, taken aback. This is so personal. I can't handle someone else's feelings, can barely handle my own. I'm frozen. 

'Try being a skinny little Jew boy on this white-bread campus. Imagine being younger and smaller, and yes, smarter, than a lot of your classmates. That's the way to be a real freak on campus.' 

First time I can remember Sandburg sounding bitter. 

'I am the freak here, Jim, no matter what you think. And all my freakiness is on the outside, right out there where everyone can see it. No hiding for me. Nope, I'm proud of it. I like my earring and my clothes. I won't change my music.' Sandburg is really wound up now and though his voice is low-pitched, he's practically spitting with anger. 'And I'm not cutting my hair!' 

After a few moments' silence, he says, 'People don't like freaks, but if nothing else, they should be grateful to us. Who else would make them seem normal?' 

He dabs at his lip again. I slowly exhale, not sure what to say. I'm no good in these situations, where someone needs something. Sandburg, as always, makes it easy for me. I watch him do that same thing he did at Thanksgiving, simply take whatever's bothering him and bury it deep. How many times has he had to do that? 

'So. You're ready for that English final, big guy? You feeling pretty good about it? You should, you know it backward and forward, so don't let me down.' 

He punches me on the shoulder. I try frantically to think of a plausible reason to touch him back because he's standing up and adjusting his scarf, and I haven't thanked him yet. 

'You'll do fine, Jim,' he looks me full in the face now. 'Get into that Ellison Zone and ace it, man. And do what it takes to score the winning goal, or whatever quarterbacks do. You'll win the big game, even without me on the team.' He gives me a faint semblance of the Sandburg smile. 'Have a good break, Jim.' 

With that, he's gone. And I never even thanked him. 

* * *

Christmas break is a whirlwind of activity. Practice every day, parties at night. I go to those Carolyn or my father coerce me into. Carolyn's are too crowded, with drunken frat boys grabbing heavily perfumed girls under the mistletoe. Dad's are too boring, with drunken lawyers grabbing annoyed paralegals under the mistletoe. 

Both of them must think this is providing me with a good example. Carolyn is as subtle but clear about what she's expecting after graduation (marriage) as is my old man (law school). He's in for a shock. No law school for me if the NFL doesn't work out, I'm leaning toward a different future. Nice good guys vs. bad guys job, one set of black-and-white rules. Can't find that in a law firm. Carolyn might stand a chance, as real-men-who-are-not-freaks get married; that seems pretty black-and-white. 

Except that Sandburg has shown me shades of grey. 

Two games are scheduled during winter break, so our frat house stays open to house and feed players. We win the quarter-finals two days before Christmas and are headed to the semi-finals New Year's Eve afternoon. 

In a football town like Cascade, we can do no wrong. Newspaper reporters follow us around like we're celebrities. Every day there is a picture of at least one noble Rainer Panther taking time out from practice to give back to the community. 

December 29th is our day at the homeless shelter. Mostly we stand around posing with the workers and even some of the residents while reporters snap our pictures and scribble down our insights about the upcoming game. Occasionally, we'd take a turn at serving up mashed potatoes and meatloaf. 

'Ellison!' Banks is doing a masterful job at the dessert table. 'Did you see that Sandburg's here?' 

I drop the ladle into the creamed peas. 'What? Are you sure?' 

'Yeah, Johnston saw him a while ago in the kitchen. Maybe he's doing community service for being a general freaky geek.' 

At the first opportunity, I slip into the huge, steamy kitchen. Sandburg is there, long hair tied back, doing something with bread dough. 

'Sandburg! Why are you here?' 

He startles, wipes his dusty hands on his apron and gives me a wary look. 'Jim? I could ask you the same thing.' 

I sputter. 'I'm here because I have to be.' 

'Me, too,' he replies and turns back to the counter. 

'Come on, Ellison,' someone yells, 'coach wants a group photo.' 

'Wait,' I say to Sandburg, 'why aren't you home for Christmas?' 

A little bitterness tinges his voice. 'A, I am Jewish, therefore do not feel the need to go home for Christmas, and B, my mom is not in the country right now. So I am here. Satisfied? Hey, I'm even freakier than you thought. Happy now?' 

'Sandburg, I'm sorry.' I surprise us both by reaching out to grasp his shoulder. 'Really, if I had known....' 

If I had known, what? I would have taken him home and subjected him to the Ellison hospitality again? 

Sandburg faces me and, as always, I feel myself sink into his blue gaze. 'It's OK, Jim, really. It's not the first time. I'm fine. I'm warm, well-fed, and people here like me. No worries. Go on, they're waiting. And good luck at the game.' 

'Ellison, now!' 

I squeeze his shoulder and wish for the millionth time that I could articulate as well I could throw a football. 

* * *

I can throw well and do. We win by a lop-sided score and the town goes crazy. For once I feel good, in control. Coach is happy we remain undefeated, my old man is happy recruiters were at the game, and I hope if there's a TV in the shelter, that Sandburg is happy. If not for him, none of this would have been possible for me. 

A TV reporter's interviewing my dad, who is gesturing with his cigar and swilling champagne with the coach. 'I always knew my Jimmy could do it,' he crows, though he never looks at me. I turn away in disgust. Yeah, Dad, amazing what a freak can do. It was two hours before I get out of the locker room. By the time I get to the frat, the party is in full swing, courtesy of kegs sent over by alumni. 

There are too many people here and the third time I'm drenched in beer, I decide I've had enough of the noise, the smoke, the music and the alcohol. I head upstairs to my room to clean up, then remember I left my shower stuff in the basement locker room. I dodge bodies like I'm back on the field till I reach stairs. 

Odd that the lights are on and the shower's running. I hear Johnston's laughter; maybe he's got his date down here. I grab my stuff from the locker. Then I hear Keane's voice. Curious, I head toward the showers. 

In an instant, my senses go completely haywire. I can't hear anything above the roar in my ears, my heart's pounding so hard my skin's going numb from the vibration, and my eyes won't let in enough light to believe what I'm seeing. The world recedes, come up too close, recedes again. 

Sandburg. 

Tied by his red flannel shirt to the shower head, while the water flows down over his naked body. Feet barely touching the tile. Limp. Head down, hair covering his face. God, is he dead? 

The snap of a towel against Sandburg's ass and his weak cry break my paralysis. Keane, standing clear of the water, grabs his hair and forces the bottle between his lips. Sandburg sputters and chokes, tries to pull away from the bottle but Keane's forcing it deeper into his mouth. 

I see red, feel the ever-simmering rage boiling. Johnston and his cronies are too drunk to recognize the danger they're in. 

'Christ, Ellison, we're just having a little fun,' Johnston slurs. 'Sandburg here is helping us celebrate. Isn't that right, princess?' He flicks the towel against Sandburg's back and a red welt appears immediately. 

Keane and his buddy are almost too drunk to stand, so when I tap them, they go down hard. 

'Get the fuck out,' I say in a low voice, afraid of fury I can't control. 'Get out before I kill you.' 

Hands up in surrender, Keane and the other guy stagger backwards till they hit the lockers, then I hear their footsteps up the stairs. 

I save the best for Johnston, savoring the crunch of his nose and the sheen of his blood. Holding a towel to his face, he collapses in a corner and passes out. 

A couple of deep breaths. Focus. 

I shut off the ice-cold water streaming over Sandburg. Up close his skin is blue but he's not shivering. That's bad, got to be. I try not to look at him, but the vision of his body is etched on my eyelids. He's slender but more wiry than I thought. Dark tufts of hair under his arms, a soft mat on his chest, a dark nest between his thighs. His smooth back flexed because of the way his arms are bound. His ass. Round and soft and smooth, splotchy red welts where they hit him. 

I hate myself for even thinking of his body at a time like this, so I snatch a couple of towels and drape one over his shoulders. He flinches but his eyes don't open. 

Wet flannel is nearly impossible to untangle, but finally I free his hands by tearing the fabric. I awkwardly hold him up and try to wrap a towel around his waist. For a moment, he comes alive, flailing his arms and gasping, 'no, no!' He catches me in the jaw but the hit's too slow and too soft to do any damage. I want to believe he fought them, want to know that he hurt them, too. 

'Sandburg! Blair! It's me. It's Jim. You're all right, now, you're safe.' I feel foolish saying that but it seems to work. All the fight goes out of him. I half-drag, half-carry him out to a dimly lit corner of the locker room and just hold him. I'm uncomfortable and graceless. I don't know how to hold anyone close, don't know what to say. Icy rivulets from his hair drip down both of us, so I try to pull the towel closer around his shoulders. 

For a long while we sit there, him half in my lap, head under my chin, arms wrapped tightly around his ribs. I think he's passed out; a little alcohol would probably put him under and I have no idea how much they made him drink. 

Alternately believing I'm as brave as Sandburg and as sleazy as a pervert, I slide my hand up under his wet hair and stroke his neck gently. But it's not perversion, not about sex; it's about friendship, about acceptance, about comfort. Things I never get from, nor give to, girls. Or anyone else, if I'm honest. 

Maybe some long-repressed memory of my mother prompts me to rock him a little, croon some meaningless words like a lullaby. Overhead, the party rumbles on. The countdown begins, then a huge raucous cheer: the new year has begun. I half-doze off, so exhausted after the game, then this. 

Sandburg is warming up. He's been a solid, unmoving weight against me, so when he finally starts shivering, it startles me. I rub circles on his back, tuck his feet under my thigh. 

An alien feeling -- happiness, I think -- shoots through me: I'm touching him and I'm not freaking out. For all the times he's helped me, I think, I'm finally helping Sandburg back. 

A much more familiar voice echoes in my head: 'If it weren't for you, he wouldn't be here at all. You screw up everything. Freak.' I pull Sandburg closer, try to regain that fleeting sense of happiness. 'Faggot.' I close my eyes, knowing that's what I deserve. 

'Jim?' 

OK, now I'm freaking out. Sandburg knows I'm holding him. My throat closes up tight. 

'Jim? Why?' Sandburg pushes away, struggles to get up but his coordination's off. His teeth are chattering from a mixture of fear, anger and cold. 'I got nothing and you guys' -- he shakes his head -- 'those guys have everything. Everything. A home, family, a car, friends, even a dog.' 

He's softly slurring his words like he's talking to himself, but I can hear every one. 'They got all that and they come after me? I got what? A mother who half the time I don't know where she is, a father I've never seen, no home. Nothing. 

'Why did they do this to me, Jim?' he says raggedly, on the edge of tears, still shivering, still a little spacey. 

I can't answer that, so I move away, finding only one flannel shirt, shredded, of course. His torn jeans are in the corner of the shower and the scent tells me they've been pissed on. Jesus. Gingerly I search his pockets and come up with a thin, multi-colored wallet and a little Swiss Army knife. I toss the jeans and the shirt. 

'Come over here, Sandburg,' I coax him, 'let's get you dressed.' 

He looks fragile and cold and so young. His balance is off and I can see the tremors run through him. Hope he's not in shock or anything, his lucidity seems to come and go. He stands obediently while I pull one of my old tee-shirts over his head. I rummage around in my locker and unearth a clean pair of boxers. Too big for him but better than nothing. 

'I want to go home,' he hiccups and I wonder where he's thinking of. His dorm room? The shelter? On a trek to find his mother? I'm no good at this, I don't know what to say. 

Suddenly the door slams open and light floods down the stairs. Sandburg jumps like he's been shot. Someone shouts, 'Anyone down there? Come on up, man, cops are on their way. We gotta clean up.' 

'Jim?' If Sandburg were standing any closer, he'd be on the other side of me. 'Jim,' he whispers. 'I can't be here like this.' He gestures vaguely. 'I'll lose my scholarships.' A sob. 'I've got nowhere else to go except school. Help me.' 

Every superhero feeling I ever had chooses that moment to kick in. 'I'll take care of you, Sandburg. Nothing bad will happen.' I cringe even as I say that, given what's happened to him tonight. He just nods, still gripping my shirt tight in one fist. 

Sandburg assiduously avoids looking at the showers as we head up the stairs. The scene in the living room is chaotic. Bongs being emptied and stashed, air freshener sprayed everywhere, junior sorority girls hustled out the door. It gives us cover to make our way up the back stairs. 

I shove Sandburg into my dark room. 'Wait here,' I whisper, 'I'll be back for you.' He nods and I head back down into the madness. 

Yeah, the cops arrive in response to a noise complaint, but it's almost like a post-game party with them. Only seniors are left and we're all over 21, so the cops are cool about the beer. They choose to ignore the lingering pot smoke. They're really good guys and we shoot the shit about the game for more than an hour. 

By the time I get back to my room, it's nearly 4:00 am. For a moment, I panic, thinking Sandburg's gone, but then I see the lump at the far edge of my bed, covers pulled up and only the top of his head visible. 

Interesting dilemma. I'm exhausted, but do I get into bed? Or just sit up a couple more hours, take him back to the shelter or wherever, then sleep? My outraged body decides for me. I slip out of my sweater and jeans and slide under the covers, taking care to stay on the edge. I blink a couple of times, then sleep comes. 

And with it the dreams. Sleep is such a grey area for me; can't keep my mind in black-and-white focus like I can when I'm awake. I'm restless, muscles twitching. 

Despite being so tired, I awaken at my usual early hour, but on high alert. I'm not alone in this bed. Christ! Sandburg! I had completely blocked that. 

I roll over cautiously. Sandburg's head is on the pillow now, but the quilts are still pulled up to his ears. I'm in sheer panic mode. The college super bowl is two weeks away and I'm risking everything. Let me count the ways I'm fucked. Hit a teammate, over a guy who's not really one of us. Didn't report an assault. Have a minor in my bed. A male minor. Have I forgotten anything? 

I try to balance this against what's happened to Sandburg, but I keep selfishly returning to my own situation. Once again, it's all about me. I'm sorry for what they did, but Sandburg will have to go now, right now, before anyone finds out. I reach out to shake him awake, but instead a loose tendril of his hair catches my attention. I touch that instead. 

If I look closely, and I do, I can separate the strand into its different colors, despite the weak light. Where it leaves his head, it's smooth as silk, then about midway the waves appear. It curls around my finger. I pull another tendril free of the quilts and stroke that too. His hair slides and twists and binds my fingers to him. Every other sensation deserts me, leaving me only with silky hair flowing between my fingers like water. 

By the time I notice that Sandburg's eyes are open and he's quietly watching me, I have a handful of his hair. I freeze in place, the familiar paralysis of an episode locking my limbs. 

Frenzied thoughts chase themselves around in my brain, making clear thinking impossible, even as my body lies rigid. Fuck, I think, fuck fuck fuck. He's in my bed. I'm stroking his hair. He's going to scream. I am so fucked. 

I can't even blink, just stare at him as the last minutes of life as I know it tick away. His lips move but if he's saying anything out loud I can't hear it. 

Sandburg takes my free hand and holds it over his heart. Through my tee-shirt he's wearing, I feel the warmth of his skin, his solid chest and the comforting cadence of his heartbeat. 

Slowly the world begins to reappear. My fingers leave his hair. I hear his voice, 'It's OK, Jim, everything's all right now.' Over and over. 

When I can see again, he smiles at me. A feeling of such warmth, such reassurance, such, no, I won't say love, but something close, washes over me. I smile back. Close my eyes and drift off, more peaceful than I've felt in months. 

Everyone is still sleeping off their hangovers when Sandburg and I get up. He dresses in several of my shirts and my blue sweater, which, come to think of it, I've never gotten back, and a decidedly too big pair of sweatpants. Shoes aren't an option, so, with three pairs of socks on his feet, we made our way out to the truck. 

I want to surprise him, so I find a big department store in the frenzy of its New Year's Day sale. 'Wait in the truck, Sandburg,' I tell him. 

I buy a pair of sneakers, boots, a few thermal shirts, some Levis and a good pair of gloves. Kind of makes me happy to charge it all to William Ellison. Payback for Thanksgiving. Sandburg makes noises about refusing, but even I, insensitive as I am about emotions, can see that he's touched and thankful. And warm, finally. 

We drive around Cascade and the surrounding areas most of the day. We talk and laugh about many things, but studiously ignore what happened last night in the locker room and this morning in my bed. Eventually we stop at Wonder Burger for a quick supper. Sandburg tries to lecture about healthy food but is so hungry he finishes his bacon burger and fries before me. 

It's been one of the best days I can remember and I don't want it to end. 

'Where to, Sandburg?' I ask with false enthusiasm, wanting so badly to take him back to my room. My human security blanket. 

'Jim, I'm at the shelter until the dorms open,' he says quietly. I know that, but I don't want it to be true. We drive there in silence. Sitting in the parking lot, I have another chance to thank Sandburg for what he's done, and to apologize for what's been done to him. And if I were really brave, to tell him how much I enjoyed sleeping with him, literally. Of course, I say nothing. 

* * *

I won't say my life changed that day, nothing so melodramatic, but it did get better. A lot better. 

We won the big game, the recruiters were there, everyone was happy. With football over, the pressure was off. Spring semester classes are gut courses. I don't really need tutoring any longer, but I still meet Sandburg twice a week, on the weekends, too. 

We don't do much, just drive around and talk. Well, Sandburg talks and I listen, but that works well for us. It's comfortable, fun, even, something that had been sadly lacking in my life. 

Except that Sandburg doesn't quit about this episode thing 

'Jim.' 

I groan, loud, theatrically. I recognize the tone. We are about 20 miles outside of Cascade so it isn't like I can threaten to drop him off and make him walk home. 

'No, man, listen. I think I figured something out.' 

I try to look annoyed or disinterested, but either he's onto my tricks or he's conveniently ignoring me. 

'Let's test something,' he begins. 'Trust me.' 

Groaning for real now, I tease him, 'You know, coming from you, those are the two scariest words in the English language.' 

We pull onto a small dirt road. With the lights off and only sound the soft ticking of the truck cooling off, it's amazing: the stars, the quiet, the wide open space. In the faint moonlight, we can see a dozen deer at the edge of the wood, slowly making their way into the field. 

I wish Sandburg would forget about his tests and we could just sit here and enjoy the peace. But there's no shaking him once he gets hold of an idea. 

'So, Jim,' he begins, on the edge of his seat, like he does when he's excited. 'I think you can control your gift. Not just mute everything but also enhance everything.' 

I snort in derision. Like I'd want to do that. But, as always, Sandburg can convince me of anything if he talks long enough. So I imagine my big, elaborate stereo system. Put the equalizer in my mind. Imagine sound as bass, taste as treble, sight as balance, yada, yada. I can slide them up or down at will, and re-set them as necessary. Easier said than done, I remind him, but Sandburg's too intent on register my doubt. 

'Try it, Jim, just once,' he pleads. 'Start slow, ease one up a little bit, then another. Just keep them carefully monitored. Don't go too high, too fast.' 

Thinking I'm probably making the biggest mistake of my life, I try. For a moment, it's just me and Sandburg sitting in the truck, looking out at a dark field, and I feel foolish. But in an instant, it's like my mind's expanding. I want to tell Sandburg about it, but suddenly the stars begin to twinkle. 

With some sort of mental push I've never experienced before, it is a whole new world. First the trees come into focus, then the branches, then the leaves. First the scent of the truck, but then pine, animals, water. An owl, soft rustling of mice, deer grazing; I can practically hear the lightning bugs flash. Pushing every control up to the limit, I fly out into the night, drunk on the incredible sensations. For the first time, I'm free of constraints and limits. I am all-powerful, the superhero I've always wanted to be, not the freak I always think I am. 

There's no barrier to how far I can see, how much I can hear, what I can feel. I want Sandburg to know this, I want him to come with me out into this new world. But turning my head is a mistake. I begin to fall, like I slipped off a tightrope. Worse. Slipping is one thing, but this is like a 100-story drop. I can't get air into my lungs. Freezing. 

I am dying. And I don't want to. Six months ago, I was ready to end it all, but now I want desperately to live. 

Something's tethering me, like a string slows an plummeting kite. I concentrate on that warm place on my arm, hanging on until the world rights itself and I'm back inside the truck on a deserted road on a cool, starry night. 

'Jesus,' Sandburg says softly, his sturdy hand still grasping my arm. 'I had no idea. I'm sorry, Jim, so sorry.' 

Wasn't his fault, but I'm not ready to talk. We sit and listen to the crickets, feel the cool night breeze, watch the deer step closer -- things we can both experience. I think for a long time about what just happened, the good and the bad, the black and the white of it. For once, Sandburg is silent. 

I laugh quietly. It's because he's asleep. His head leans awkwardly against the half-open window, his -- my -- sweater is pulled down over his hands, his sock-clad feet tucked up on the seat. Always cold, Sandburg. I tug on him till he leans towards me. Wait till he settles against me, heavy and solid, then I carefully slide up a notch so I can hear his steady heartbeat. 

I'm in a good place, mentally and physically, to do a lot of soul-searching and thinking. Despite my scare earlier, I might have my condition, whatever its official name might be, figured out. If I can control it, then it no longer controls me. No more hiding from the world. 

Childhood dreams of being a superhero come back, but instead of dismissing them, I start to think them through. Maybe I could be an everyday kind of hero, like a firefighter, a police officer, a medic. It isn't football I want, but something bigger, something better. I want to protect. 

Sandburg shifts in his sleep and I slip my jacket over his legs. Still not very brave about this sort of thing, but I thread his hair through my fingers. When he does nothing more than breathe deeply, I hold him closer. 

Can't get much closer than this. Christ, when I think of where I was a few months ago: hating myself, depressed, damn near suicidal, unable to connect with anyone. Look at me now. Holding this guy, not freaking out, figuring it out as I go. 

He's a funny kid. I wonder how Sandburg came to be the way he is. I have Sally, and a father, a younger brother who once idolized me, a mother I could remember being warm and loving. Even had a dog's unconditional devotion. He had none of those things, not even a home. Yet, he turns out to be the warmest, most generous, bravest person I know. 

Maybe he has a 'condition.' Maybe he wants to protect, too. 

OK, I'm not Sandburg-level brave yet, but I do lean down and kiss his hair, rub his back, whisper the words I've wanted to say for so long to him. Too bad he's sleeping. Maybe next time, I'll be brave enough to wait till he's awake. 

By the time Sandburg begins to stir and start talking again, which happens simultaneously, by the way, the sun's coming up. I've come to some realizations, made some good decisions. I'm happy and peaceful, something you never could have convinced me would ever happen. My therapist would be shocked. 

The rest of the year flies by. Sandburg's the first to know that I've enlisted in the Army. He argues briefly for the Navy, but concedes that a fear of open water might be a drawback. His approval counterbalances my old man's disappointment about law school and Carolyn's about marriage. I'm there on Class Day when he wins the Anthropology Department's award for excellence and highest honors in English and History. He's an usher at graduation and gives me the biggest Sandburg smile when I march past, feeling faintly ridiculous in a cap and gown. 

And then our time's up. We have one last breakfast at Wonder Burger, where we talk about my upcoming basic training, about disciplining my senses to enhance, not distract, about his upcoming cross-country trip with his uncle. But not about how we feel or when we'll see each other again. 

We drive to the bus station. Time's growing short, but the words I rehearsed refuse to come. Thank you, I want to say to him. You might have been just an freshman, but you're the best teacher I ever met. And you're the best friend I could have ever asked for. You've pulled me through some pretty weird stuff. 

As always, Sandburg makes it easy for me. 'This senses thing,' he says, 'you know it's more than just a research project. It's about friendship, too. I just didn't get it before. You could be, no, you are the real thing: the best friend I ever had. I love you, man.' 

I nod, too choked up to make any response. 

Sandburg hugs me hard and long, then hops out. Hair flying, backpack dragging, he turns and waves before climbing aboard. 

That's my last glimpse of Sandburg. If I had been as brave, as honest as he was, I would have hugged him back, would have thanked him for changing my life. Would had said I loved him, too. I hope he knows. I think he does. Still wish I had said it, though. 

Sandburg's always been braver, right from the start. 

* * *

The army and I are made for each other. I love the regimented life, the black-and-white expectations, the clear rewards and demerits system; even the food's not bad. In return, the military teaches me how to do what I want most: to be a protector. 

My army buddies are a good bunch; they work hard, play hard, drink hard. There are poker nights and loud debates and ribald humor. After dark, most of us are jerking off. Nobody asks, so I don't tell, but I think of Sandburg. About how he felt against me that night in the truck, the scent of his hair, his laugh. I come long and hard, biting the pillow and smiling at the same time. 

For the next three years, I write a few letters, scribble some post cards to him. In return, Sandburg sends me great, long narratives, written just as he talks. He rambles from classes to Amazonian tribes, to food, to anthropologic theories, to movies, to Indian rituals, to books and everything in between. Though they're not regulation issue, I keep those letters in an inside camo pocket; they're as essential to me as Kevlar. 

There's two weeks' leave coming up just after Ranger training and I'm heading home. Officially it's for Stephen's high school graduation. What Sandburg doesn't know is that I'll be there for his graduation, too. 

* * *

Peach. Peach fuzz. Juicy. Blush colored. Firm. Golden flesh. Fragrant. Sweet. Soft cleft. 

I roll them in my hand. Think of Sandburg. Naked. 

Easy to do, he's not far away, naked, and frolicking like a dolphin in the cold lake water. Who knew that under all that flannel there was a Nature Boy yearning to be free. Communal living makes modesty a vice, not a virtue, the army taught me that, but Sandburg was born to it. He sure didn't have any problem stripping down and diving in. Not me, too cold, too dark, too deep. I like my water contained and chlorinated. 

But I like laying in the sun, watching Sandburg. Naked. 

I have to report back tomorrow. Sandburg's off on some expedition at the end of the week. We have just this short time together after his graduation and are making the best of it. After hiking to the lake, we've eaten most of what Sally packed for us, had some beer, talked about the future, laughed a lot. Feels like we picked up right where we left off. 

I'm full and lazy and comfortable, a little bit buzzed, and just so damn happy to be with Sandburg. I'm also half-hard but trying to ignore it. 

'Jim! Did you eat everything or is there something left for me?' He sits down cross-legged on the blanket. Fortunately he's wrapped a towel around his waist. 'Brrrrr. Cold and wet is my world, man!' 

I hand him one of the peaches I've been fondling. 

He takes a bite of the peach and starts talking. I let it flow over me. It's one of those rare perfect days in Cascade: warm, sunny, a little breezy. And it's a rare perfect day for me: I'm relaxed, really happy, content. 

And I'm with Sandburg. The guy who pointed me in the direction of happiness and pushed. OK, the friend who dragged me kicking and screaming out from behind my glass wall, and then pushed. I have to laugh. 

Sandburg stops, mid-bite, mid-sentence. 'What?' 

I shake my head, courage peeking around the corner but not quite ready to join the party. 

'Jim? Why are you laughing? Tell me,' he threatens. 

'Or what, Sandburg?' 

He's grown some since freshman year, but he's got nothing on this soldier boy. I flex my biceps to remind him. 

He just laughs, waves the peach around. 'Brains beat brawn every time, big guy. He tosses the pit towards the lake and takes another bite. 'You're big, but I'm fast.' 

That's my Sandburg, brave in the face of death. I squint at him. Water caught in his curls glints like diamonds. The sun outlines him in gold. Peach juice glazes his lips, drips down his wrist. My Sandburg. 

My body's moving before my head can remind me that I'm not this brave. I use the towel around his shoulders to pull him close, then slide my hands up and position his face just so and kiss him. Kiss him the way I've been dreaming: long and deep and hard. 

It's like that night in the truck: I'm soaring, everything's engaged. Diamonds in his hair, juice dripping down my chest, his legs resting atop my thighs, the scent of lake water, peaches, Sandburg. He's warm, he's real, he's kissing me back. 

Just as quickly as it came, my courage deserts me. What have I done? I thrust him away in sheer panic. 

But Sandburg will not be denied. Hands still on my shoulders, peach still dripping, lips still glazed, he pushes. Pushes hard. I'm flat on my back with a hot, demanding Sandburg all over me. 

'More,' he says breathlessly, 'more.' 

And proceeds to take what he wants. Sandburg can kiss, Jesus, can he kiss. Full-body commitment kisses. Kisses that compromise my ability to breathe, my control over my body, my sanity. 

He backs off a bit, looks down at me. 'Jim?' 

I'm afraid and exhilarated, anxious and ecstatic, trusting him to guide me here. I want him. The inner Ellison is aching with want, but the outer Ellison is afraid to say it, afraid to say anything. As if Sandburg can sense what I want, or maybe because no answer is as good as a yes, he leans back in, always braver than me. 

His lips, his tongue, the words he whispers between attacks, excite, incite, invite me. I wrap my arms around him, more daring with actions than with words. He spreads my legs with his knee and settles in. I can barely breathe now, focus shifting from his lips to where he's rocking gently against me. 

Taking pity on me, he moves from my mouth to my neck. Doesn't help, I'm still panting, not getting enough air. I stare at the sky, feeling the world changing right here on the blanket. 

Sandburg nips and kisses across my collarbone, laps at the sticky juice that trails down my chest, nudges my dog tags out of the way. 'You're so fucking beautiful.' His voice is low and rough with arousal. 

He pauses for a moment, then begins to rub the peach across my nipple. My body convulses. No one's ever touched me there. My experience with girls is to get to the main event and out before an episode strikes. Sandburg is taking me places I've never been before and I'm trusting him to bring me back safely. 

'Good, isn't it, Jim? I'm going to make you feel so good. I think about you all the time, about doing this to you. Going to do it slow, make it last. Then I'm going to do it again, fast and hard.' 

I'm shivering and sweating and gasping. Totally at his mercy. 

The peach is soft and sticky and moist against my chest. Sandburg laps the juice off my nipple and my vision whites out. He does it again and then sucks gently. My world narrows to this point of pleasure. He rubs the peach against my other nipple, overloading my senses. I lift his head and set him there. I feel him smile as he licks and nuzzles, then sucks that one with the same intensity. I didn't know, never knew it could be like this. 

My back arches off the blanket. I dig my heels in so I can thrust against Sandburg's solid weight between my legs. 

'Take them off,' he whispers, 'I want to see you.' 

I shudder, fumble with buttons and zippers until I'm bare. Hard as steel, leaking uncontrollably. I probably should be embarrassed but I don't have the time or the ability to feel anything but what he tells me. 

Sandburg kisses his way down my belly, teeth making me jump, tongue making me moan. 

'Jesus, Jim, you're beautiful. So big, so hard. Spread your legs for me, Jim, show me you want this.' 

His words, his voice alone, could make me come. I'm right on the edge. 

The peach glides down my cock, slow and slick. My hips involuntarily jerk. So hard, I ache. I need something to rub against, but Sandburg's holding me down. He traces the peach across my balls, the slippery flesh first, then the rougher, fuzzy skin. 

Little moans and whimpers, soft pleas. Are they coming from me? 

'Not yet, Jim. I'm not done with you yet. I've waited too long for this, for you.' 

Slow shudders start at the top of my skull and make their way down, curling my toes. I wait for whatever Sandburg's going to do next. His voice anchors me here, keeps me from darkness, from paralysis. 

I rise up, balance on my elbows. Sandburg's lost the towel and the peach. He kneels naked between my legs, watching me steadily. Then lowers his head and takes me into his mouth. 

Small laps around the head, long, wet licks down and back up, soft suction. 'Never, never, never,' my mind chants, 'never this good, never wanted it this much.' 

He rolls my balls, scratching softly, rubs beneath. Now it's too much, too intense, bordering on painful. Loss of control terrifies me. I need it back. I need his voice. 

I touch his face. Sandburg, I want to say, help me. As he always does, he makes it easy. I pull him up to me, kiss him deeply, taste myself and peaches. Feel him pressed along the length of me, hot and strong and wanting. But gone is the commanding voice, the strong hands arranging me to his liking. 

I push him back onto the blanket and take control. Sandburg anticipates my desires. His legs spread, his arms glide down over my ribs, he turns his head just a bit to offer his throat. I flash back to that moment in the library, where I held him down and first got hard for him. How that fueled my fantasies for months. Now it's real. 

And he starts talking again. 'Touch me, Jim. You feel so good, so hard. I want you, Jim, please. Please.' 

He raises one leg up, shifts a bit and brings us into alignment. I gasp with hot pleasure. Sandburg rocks up against me and down, up and down. I fall into rhythm, sliding my erection in the hollow between his cock and his hipbone. Slippery, hot, solid. I thrust hard, harder still. 

He looks up at me and every sense expands. Sandburg fills my world. I see nothing beyond his blue eyes, feel no more than his skin, his nipples, his cock, his legs caressing mine. I smell the peaches, the lake, his hair, hear only his gasps and moans, his ragged breathing -- or is it mine? I lean in for a taste. 

'Jim, again. Harder. More. Don't stop, don't stop.' He hooks his ankles at my knees to spread my legs wider and our balls touch. I'm on top, I'm in control, yet it's Sandburg's voice that guides me, full of encouragement and love and reassurance. 

I'm losing myself, drowning in the pleasure. I reach for Sandburg's ass, lift up and hump him wildly. He gives as good as he gets, chanting my name. I wonder how he can still talk; I can barely breathe. 

'I gotta come, Jim. I'm aching, hurts so good, Jim, please, please now.' He's writhing under me, strong, sturdy body pushing and thrusting. His legs are locked around mine, cock hard against my belly, arms holding me tight. 'Please,' he's panting, moaning. 'Jim!' 

He's pushing down on my hips, I'm pulling him up against me, our cocks are sliding together, thighs straining. He's snaked a hand between us, making a tight tunnel to push into. Now, now, now. 

'Blair,' I roar, pushing hard to empty myself on his belly. I feel his heat shoot out between us. 

'Jim,' he says softly. 'Jim, oh man, Jim.' 

He might have said more, but I'm fading fast. I'm probably crushing him beneath me but he feels so good I can't unlock my arms. The world disappears. 

When I come back to myself, I've been cleaned up and we're lying side-by-side, lazy as two cats in the sun. Sandburg's on his belly, face on my shoulder, arm stretched across me. 

I pull him closer, tuck a strand of curls behind his ear and trace along his spine, whisper the words I've wanted to say for so long to him. Thank you, Sandburg, for finding me, for smashing that glass wall, for being so loyal and kind. You are my best friend, Sandburg, I say softly, and I love you. Too bad he's sleeping. Maybe next time, I'll be brave enough to wait till he's awake. 

Funny how I always think better when he's next to me. I may not know exactly what I want, or just how to get there, but I've got Sandburg and he'll show me the way. 

Wonder how I can keep him with me. Army's out, for sure, and I don't think he's got any inclination to become a firefighter or a medic or a cop. Three months until we see each other again. Three months until he's back from Borneo and I'm home from Peru. That will give us time. We'll think of something by then. 

I should be terrified; being a faggot is even worse than being a freak, according to my old man. But instead I feel at peace, right with the world, like Sandburg's grey has softened and nuanced my black-and-white view. It doesn't terrify me any more: not the label, not the idea, not the actions. OK, maybe the actions still do a little, but I bet he's not afraid and I'm with him. 

Sandburg's braver than me. Always has been, right from the start. 

* * *

End My Life in Black and White by Paddy: paddygreen2004@yahoo.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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